


BIG.

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Large Cock, Margaery is a size queen, Modern Westeros, Older Man/Younger Woman, Penis Measuring, Penis Size, Size Difference, Size Kink, Social Media, Speed Dating, a modern love story, love and sex, the true measure of a man, we blame her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-15 02:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: Size matters every last Monday of the month at Paradise 7, where very well-endowed men get to speed-date the women who love them.They call itThe Big Party. The minimum standard for the night? Seven inches, baby.But as club owner Petyr Baelish falls harder and faster with each passing month for Big Party regular Sansa Stark, he grows only too aware of his own ironic limitations.Can he get the girl even with his shortcomings, or does size really trump all?





	1. MONTH 6 — 23.07.18

It is barely eight in the evening — a whole hour until the doors fling open — but already the queue is long and impatient. Even though this is a ticketed event. 

“We’re sold out,” Ros informs a bunch of clueless hopefuls at the door. It doesn’t matter how many times she says it, how many signs they put up. People still ask, as if somehow through some stroke of luck and persistence combined, someone with a ticket just thought to give up their place and the waitlist a mile long had coincidentally all given up hope.  

Not bloody likely. 

Ros sounds bored, and Petyr can’t blame her. Business is good, business is growing. They’re starting to attract even the tourists, which only goes to show how notoriety and novelty travels. But tickets now get snaffled on average within the half hour, pretty much as soon as they are released online.  

Since they started this monthly event five months ago, they’ve picked up media attention and a lot of pressure to have this party run weekly, at the very least. A few of the usual competitors have already publicly condemned the “stunt”, while secretly trying something similar with mixed results. 

Still. When it comes to novelty, sometimes people only look to the ones who took the first cab off the rank for authenticity. For _his_ is the Original _Big_ Party. And Petyr keeps a pretty high bar. 

“Know what I heard this morning?” Ros tells him. “Some of these tickets are now going on the blackmarket. Selling at a cool 200 dragons, would you believe! This really has gotten big. I think it’s good for our brand, for the club.”  

Petyr smirks. In front of Ros, he tuts and shows mild displeasure. “They’re profiteering off our event,” he points out. “Sooner or later, we’re going to have to clamp down on this or it’ll start to hurt us one way or another.” He doesn’t tell her, of course, that _he’s_ the primary driver behind the racketeering. How else could anyone get their hands on that many tickets in the first place.   

“Two hundred dragons, you said?” Petyr muses. “Huh. Well, if they’re willing to cough up that much, let’s kick up the door fees next time.” 

Desirability. Exclusivity. Rarity. That’s how you make an event _the_ destination. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42795044214/in/dateposted-public/)

 

The first time Petyr pulled this together, it had been just for a laugh, really. The club was usually closed on Mondays — as was the norm with all nightlife venues around Lannisport — and this was his little experiment to see if he could pull in extra money on a sleepy Monday night.  

And boy, did it pull in extra money. 

Seven — that is the point of difference. The women are vetted for their looks, which is why everyone has to log in to his ticketing system using their social media account. His algorithm rejects those with profile pics of cats and scenery because what is the bloody point — and more importantly, _what the hell are they trying to hide?_ He wants to see their faces. Symmetry. Big eyes. Perfect teeth. Thick, glossy hair and succulent lips with promise and stretch. And if they flash a nice cleavage, all the better.  

The men, however. They can only get in if they have a big schlong. Seven glorious inches, at the very least. And while Petyr isn’t averse to the odd dick pic or two, when it comes to the men, it’s ironically an honour system. For even Petyr thought that uploading photo proof before purchase was a step too far for his ticketing system and the Lannisport government.  

Most of the time, the men deliver the goods. The chronic liars get named and shamed elsewhere anyway. For the seven hells hath no fury like a woman cheated of an inch or three. 

It’s almost poetic, really. _Paradise 7_ has been his flagship club for almost twenty years. Seven is the number of the Gods, the number of their hells. Seven inches of a throbbing man’s cock sheathed tight in a beautiful woman’s cunny… that’s seven heaven, they say.  

And he’s putting them all together like a fucking fairy godfather. (Or was it the other one, the matchmaker.)   

He scans the queue even before he knows what he’s doing. He’s looking for her again, he realises. She’s been coming to his event for the last three months. “Sansa…” he murmurs her name in the early night breeze, tasting how soft her name is. _Sansa_ … Now she gets priority entry, she and that friend of hers, the little dark fierce one. Margaery. As soon as either one of them logs in to buy their tickets, he gets pinged.  

He spies two others and he grimaces immediately. Of course, he thinks to himself, there’s always the jackasses that he cannot seem to get rid of. Like blowflies in summer, they always find a way in. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/29720021858/in/dateposted-public/)

Margaery and Sansa enter the club and Varys, the bouncer at the door, quirks them the tiniest smile. He’s bald and pale and looks soft and flabby, but Sansa and Margaery have been around here long enough to see how easily he chucked out Ramsay Bolton one month, Joffrey Baratheon the month before. They are semi-regulars now, Margaery and Sansa, although the former frequents Paradise 7 way more than she does. Sansa recognises a handful of faces in the room, though thankfully none she’d actually gone out with.  

It’s her fourth time in as many months and the tickets are notoriously difficult to score, so it’s always a surprise when she and Marge get them anyway. Part of her secretly wishes they didn’t, but then dinner before with Margaery is always something to look forward to, and at least this way they get to catch up once a month. Make time for each other, that sort of thing. 

But it still isn’t her jam, her crowd. Even though she supposes she’s now a veteran at the _Big_ Party. It sounds very snobby of her to think so, but just quietly, _it’s embarrassing_. Walking into a club with hundreds of others, where you start the evening knowing at least one thing: that every man in here is supposed to be hung like a small horse. 

It’s vulgar, it really is. And so thoroughly at odds with what she does for her day job, although she supposes that documentary makers ought to be curious about all human foibles. Including their size kinks. 

The club itself is very tastefully done. Converted from a row of Dornish-style terrace houses, the street entrance quaintly looks like you’re about to enter someone’s home until you get in there and realise it’s massive. Three storeys high with wraparound balconies overlooking the dance floor below where the vast majority of tables and chairs are set up now, just rows and rows of speed dating stations. Sansa doesn’t do beers and she doesn't drink much wine either because of her allergies, but oddly enough, this is the one club in all of Lannisport where she can imbibe two full glasses of their House Red and still not break out in a rash.  

Ros greets them when they get inside and for the women, it’s easy. They leave their coats in the cloakroom, show their electronic tickets, get their name tags, log into the app for their session and then they’re on their merry way.  

The men do pretty much the same thing except for that last extra step. When they get their name tag, they also give their number. 

“Seven.” “Seven half.” “ Eight, almost nine. Make it nine.” “You fucking liar! How are you even walking upright!” “Do you need the decimals, or can I round up?”  

Ros pastes on her professional smile, but she’s heard them all and so her laugh is false and flirty. She writes their name in black, and then she writes their number in red. Sometimes, if they’re back again, she even remembers what their number is, which gets them all puffed up and pleased. Ros has always been excellent at customer service.  

“Length… or girth?” smirks one. Tormund Giantsbane. Ros wants to roll her eyes. That can't be his real name, surely. “The trouble with a long skinny one... You're trying to make love to a woman, not floss her teeth."  

Charming. 

The owner of the club comes down the long straight stair now, the one that skips past the first floor and heads straight to what must be his private office. _Petyr,_  Sansa thinks. That’s his name, she remembers. She read up about him one afternoon while flipping through a current affairs magazine at the dentist and recognised him immediately. It’s the eyes especially. That intensity about him, and every time he talks to her she almost flinches from his focus. He’s one of those brilliant, driven types. Property tycoon at a relatively young age, mostly self-taught. _Always hungry,_ he’d described himself even as the wings of silver around his temples betray his current age. And he looks it sometimes. Lean, mean and calculating, analysing at the back of his mind, probably. 

He’s not at all like her. She’s the creative type, always has been, although lately she’s had to turn her attention to more businessy things. 

Petyr’s always there on _Big_ nights, watching everyone and everything while staying in the background. Margaery thinks he looks hella shady, but he always gives Sansa a nice smile.  

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41782311990/in/dateposted-public/)

 

The men. Ho, THE MEN. Margaery rubs her hands as she settles in at her station. Sansa is split up from her tonight, on account of both of them being so late. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s all randomly generated by the app. 

It goes like this. The women sit pretty and they wait for the boys. Everyone gets five minutes, and just ninety seconds to find your next partner. The app dings — once to start talking, twice to end the conversation, then a little up-tempo jazz fills the room when all the men play musical chairs. Just too cute for words. 

And while everyone’s transitioning to the next, everyone taps their preferences into the app: Yes, or No. There is no Maybe, baby. And you only get to pick three yeses from those you meet. You can’t jump tables and choose the one hot guy in the room with the largest schlong. It’s random. These are the steaks, folks.  

There are rules, of course there are rules. No personal contact details exchanged during the chat, and no dick pics. Everything else boils down to taste. But of course, there’s always the unspoken rules, the things you just learn not to do or say. Don’t talk about your exes. Don’t verbal diarrhoea your weaknesses. Don’t ask how much money the other person makes. 

Margaery’s getting the hang of it. She starts with, “Hello, I’m Margaery…” pitched low but not too seductive. She finds something to compliment, even if it’s just their smile. Some of them do the smooch-cheek thing, both sides. She rolls with it; it gives her a chance to find out if the man is a sweat bucket when nervous. Because chances are, she’s going to have to smell that too when they’re in bed. 

And then it goes. Is he the talker? Or does she have to fill in the awkward silences? Is he a douche who doesn’t recognise greatness before him, or is he utterly cowed by her brilliance and her breasts?  

Five minutes. That’s all it takes Margaery. She fucking loves this. Should have done this years ago.  

They do this round robin thing — five minutes, ding-ding! off to the next — a total of twenty times. And then everyone gets a breather, maybe another round of drinks. And they wait. At exactly the appointed time, everyone’s phone goes cray because the results are released. 

Yes Matches usually hang around the club for another round or beat it to test out the infamous Number on their tag. Not everyone gets so lucky. But Margaery is always lucky. Except luck never has anything to do with it.   

Margaery’s personal mantra at these events is to never try the same man twice. Young yuppy? Go for the hipster next time. Perhaps the academic after that? Or the mature artist with the impossible name. If they suck in the head, if they suck in bed, and if gods forbid they suck at both and more, then Margaery’s approach is to chuck both the baby and the bathwater and hunt around for a new Big Daddy. Which usually means honing in on the diametric opposite of the man before. 

Right now, she’s eyeing the arrogant bastard in front of her wearing a tag that says “Harry” and then in big red marker pen, “8”. He apparently drives a Mustang and works out four times a week at the gym just down the street from hers. And even though she half suspects that he’s only the glorified coffeeboy in his rich aunt’s agricultural business, he does dress very well, he’s got a nice V and body tone, he smells clean and expensive, and if his tongue keeps going the way it has these last five minutes of monologuing — except way down south on her person later — then Harrold Hardyng is a Yes.   

~ • ~ • ~ 

“Hello,” Sansa smiles and feels mildly attracted when he cracks a smile in return. 

“Hello,” her new date replies. _Jon Snow, 8._ Curly mop of hair, an Old Navy T-shirt and a faintly 90s grunge feel to him. Also, almost ridiculously handsome with his puppy dog eyes. Sansa blinks, looking down at her app in mild disbelief to check if he’d come to the right table. He’s one of the few standout men in the room that heaps of women have been eyeing all night. Even Sansa had taken notice. It must be that unruly black mop that women can’t help but want to tame. That, and all that _muscle_. 

She’s met lots of people like him in her line of work, of course. Slightly tortured artist, prone to moody mooching and intense soliloquies.  Sansa isn’t really like that at all, even though she’s in that creative space herself. She’s been accused of being too uppity by the likes of people who look like Jon Snow. 

But Jon Snow is looking at her now and his face is far from hostile. The seconds tick by, and then both of them chuckle softly. “We’re wasting our timeslot,” Sansa points out weakly and he shrugs.  

"They say communication is 80 percent non-verbal. I’m listening.”  

That breaks the ice. Some men ask the most inane questions like her first date of the night who had asked what the name of her pet is. And when she told him sadly that her wolf had died two weeks ago, he asked what she’d name her next one. And the next after that.  

But Jon doesn’t do small talk. They talk about art mimicking life on stage and when she breaks Margaery’s rule and tells him she owns and runs The Arthouse on 69 and 3rd, he gets excited. 

“I love that theatre!” he enthuses. “Discovered it my last trip back and I visit whenever I can. But I’m away too much.” 

“Business?” 

“Army. I’m a Captain, though I’m grounded for the next six months here.” 

Sansa smiles and he looks at her before turning away, his smile self-conscious.  

“You wanna get a drink before the results?” 

“I’d love to,” Sansa replies softly just as both of their phones ping twice. 

~ • ~ • ~ 

The final gong has sounded and the room visibly deflates from all that tension, that adrenaline. The bar lights up, every hand’s on deck as the crowd washes in like a human tsunami, and Petyr watches as Curly Mop and Sansa head towards the bar. She’s laughing and Petyr's heart clenches to watch her.  

He’s dying to know what made her laugh. 

Someone else from a few parties ago — Bronn — gives her a kiss on the cheek and they chat away merrily like they’re old friends, even though Petyr's pretty certain that they’d only just met after the second _Big_ party. Then of course, Sansa is a regular now bumping into other regulars and even though she’s only swung by the club a handful of times between _Big_ parties, Petyr knows her face better than the thousands of regulars that come by here almost every week like it’s church. 

He watches her wave and squints as he tries to place who she’s waving to. He wonders if it’s someone she’s gone home with.  

The first party, there had actually been one old guy. Older than Petyr, by at least a decade easy. He was the only white-hair in a club teeming with confident, horny, invincible twenty- and thirty-somethings. Petyr was surprised he even bothered to show up and he had watched the man — Davos — as he reeled from station to station, struggling with the app. He seemed alright when it came to the actual dating but Petyr was watching the tallies and every woman had resoundingly clicked No each time he’d moved away. Too fucking old.  

But then Davos met Sansa.  

She had been nervous the whole night. Petyr didn’t need to hear her to know; it was the way she held herself, the crossed arms in front of her chest, the fingers laced tight in front of her on the table.  

But then Davos had settled down in front of Sansa and cracked a gentle joke, and she had smiled the first relaxed, genuine smile of the night. And she was the only one who clicked Yes to him. He Yes-ed her the moment he saw her. The _moment_. As did half a dozen men because she’s just exquisite, Petyr knows. She’s art. She's classy. She’s above this. What the hell is she doing here? But Petyr’s not complaining. 

As much as it had twinged to see them walk out the club together and share a cab, knowing that Sansa chose Davos oddly gave Petyr fucking hope.  

Because if Davos isn’t too old for her, then neither is Petyr. Or something like that.  

~ • ~ • ~ 

The awkward bit isn’t so much the station rotation phase. Getting directed where to go by an app? Asking your two-to-five questions while allowing time to listen? Trying not to trip or fart throughout the endeavour? That is the surprisingly easy part. The adrenaline takes over then and so you’re buoyed and not thinking too hard.  

It’s when it’s time and everyone’s phone lights up and the results are released. That’s when it gets delicate. Because that’s when you realise who said yes to you… and who didn’t. 

Only mutual matches are revealed, but the fact that you don’t make someone’s list if you happen to fancy him or her? That’s implied right there. Even a moron would get it. _He/she’s just not that into you._

Sometimes it’s obvious. Sometimes you meet a roomful of nineteen duds and only one shiny one. The chemistry is palpable, you already know you’re shagging each other’s brains out by night’s end. Or at least sharing a drink together, maybe some saliva swapping. 

But women like Margaery and Sansa are chosen at least ten times out of twenty dates. And with them only choosing three — or in Sansa’s case, only one or none at all — things get tricky. Things can get heated and messy. 

Petyr knows which ones to keep an eye on. Some men take rejection well. But well-endowed men are a little different sometimes. It’s almost like they brought along the only redeeming feature about them and expected that to sell itself. The market’s tight tonight, honey. Out there in the big wide world, maybe you’re a little special. But in this room, you gotta do more than just show up with big junior.  

Invariably, there will be men — and women — who persist anyway. Who look at the scorecard and decide to reach out to the one who wasn’t a mutual but they’d fancied hard. Maybe it’s a technical glitch, they tell themselves. _Or I was a close third option,_ as if being Number Three is a win.  

(It’s not.)   

Or, worse. There are those who will ignore their scorecard and make a beeline anyway to the one they’ve been eyeing the whole evening, but that the algorithm in the app didn’t think to assign them to this evening. And that’s when things can get ugly with alcohol in the room. 

The number of times Petyr’s watched guys try their luck with Sansa anyway, even when she’s obviously found a match… It almost beggars belief, except Petyr’s an old hand in this industry. He’s seen almost everything.  

He watches as Ramsay Bolton leans over and says something that makes Sansa’s face tighten and her body stiffen almost in fear. Petyr reacts instantly, crossing over to her with determination. 

But Curly Mop beats him to the punch and he watches now as Jon Snow cuts in. Words are exchanged, it’s starting to heat up and then Curly Mop quite literally seems to flex his humongous biceps that each look the size of Petyr’s head, almost. Ramsay leers before he moves away. For now. 

That’s sealed it for Jon Snow, Petyr thinks grimly. He moves to the cloakroom and true enough, they’re coming over now. Jon and Sansa, Margaery and a tall blonde youth with a forgettable magazine-perfect face. 

Petyr pretends to be searching for their coats as he listens in on their conversation. He hands the guys their jackets and politely asks them to wait outside, to give others room. It’s just Margaery and Sansa waiting now and Petyr’s all ears when Margaery gives a low whistle.  

“Freak weather coming up, sweetie?” Margaery purrs to her friend. 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s still summer, but I’m sensing… eight inches of Snow tonight?” 

Petyr grimaces while Sansa blushes.  

“We’re just getting coffee.” 

“Is that what you call it these days,” smirks Margaery. “Well – go have your coffee. And cake. And more beside, because he’s scrumptious. Well done.” 

He hands them their coats and Margaery turns on her heels, shrugging hers on, not even glancing his way. But Sansa smiles at him and it takes the sting away a little. _Eight inches of Snow._

“Thank you.” 

“Have a good evening, Sansa.” 

She looks genuinely surprised that he even knows her name. _Of course I do,_ he wants to tell her. _Don’t you know? You’re everywhere I look._

But of course he doesn’t.  

He watches as they leave, Margaery laughing and Sansa smiling widely, head bowed. There’s a sour, bitter taste in his mouth. It coats his throat and he knows nothing will wash it away. Just like the last three times. 

~ • ~ • ~ 

_Oh gods, I'm actually here._

Jon’s place is nice, or at least it’s not as messy as she thought it’d be. There’s still a stack of unpacked boxes that he doesn’t seem at all in a rush to deal with. His furniture is old and comfortable, eclectic and even a little Indie.  

His bed is unmade but the sheets look fresh. 

He’s disappeared somewhere, gone to the bathroom and Sansa takes this time to collect herself. She’s being silly, she knows. The whole point of the exercise is to find someone she gets along with. Who happens to have a very big penis. 

Sansa isn’t like Margaery. She really doesn’t think it the most natural thing to go home with a man on the first night. Even Davos had been a fairly slow process. A week at least.  

But like Davos, there is something inherently safe about Jon. Even familiar, like sinking into a favourite pillow. They’d kissed for a bit, with no tongues. He didn’t grope her, and even though her toes didn’t curl, she felt safe enough to accept his invitation when he suggested he could make the meanest mug of decadent hot chocolate this side of town. 

But she’s here now, and her mind is racing as she fast-forwards to the inevitable. Sansa’s read somewhere that the average man measures around five, maybe six. Sansa’s had five-to-six. Sansa knows she can deal with fives and sixes. But seven inches! Davos had been a little over seven inches and it had been, frankly, uncomfortable. 

Jon is eight. _Eight!_ Where the hell is she going to pack the last bit in? She imagines her sphincter whining already, her cervix indignantly protesting… 

It doesn’t help at all when Sansa hears a noise and turns around, only to be confronted with a very naked Jon and all his inches. 

“Oh my gods!” she yelps and turns away immediately, as if blinded by the sun. “What are you doing!” 

“I uh…” He stands there at the doorway to his bedroom and scratches his head. “I um… I thought I’d get this out of the way first. Just, you know, show that I wasn’t lying.” 

“It’s big, okay, it’s big. I believe you.” Sansa’s voice is muffled in the cushion she’d grabbed. She’s still not looking at Jon. 

“I couldn’t find my measuring tape,” he continues to mumble, to explain. He’s so earnest and she knows he’s not trying to be creepy, but she’s beetroot-red anyway. “I uh… I ended up buying a fifteen-dollar wooden ruler down at the local bookshop. It’s not very accurate,” he frowns as Sansa slowly turns around to face him. “But if you see here…” 

“It’s quite alright,” she asserts hurriedly. “I’m fine, thank you. I believe you.” 

He grabs a towel and half covers himself as he walks over and settles himself beside her on the couch. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles again. “I think I’ve embarrassed you. I thought… since you’re here, and we’re probably going to… you know…” 

“No, you’re right. I mean… yes. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” _That’s a lie,_ Sansa berates herself. Why does she do this? Why does she lie to make everyone else feel better? 

“I was being presumptuous,” he realises belatedly. “I’m sorry. I’m blunt, my friends tell me. I just thought I’d get it out of the way, you know?" He looks worried now and that makes Sansa relax just a little. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“I should have thought harder about—“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” she insists. They sit side by side, in silence. She can’t help staring at his towel, at his lap. Eight bloody inches.  

“Do you want to touch him?” he says at last. _Him_.  

“What? Oh no… that’s not what I was—” 

“It’s fine… um… I won’t mind.” 

He unwraps himself and they both stare at his lap. He’s half hard now, not as turgid as before, but it’s still an impressive specimen — long and smooth with a nice mushroom head, circumcised. But under her gaze, he starts to fill up once again. She reaches out tentatively and his cock jerks, as if in anticipation. That’s enough. She stops short of actually touching him. 

“I won’t, not now.” She smiles to assure him. “Could we just kiss instead?” 

He acquiesces immediately, leaning in and turning his head to the side. He kisses her, chastely at first but when his mouth opens slightly and she feels his tongue, she starts to panic again. 

“Um, no…” She pulls away and feels terrible. The mood, everything. It’s ruined. All this doesn’t feel natural, feel right. Not one iota. 

“How about I get you that hot chocolate I promised,” Jon suggests at last and Sansa sighs in relief. 

“I would love that, honestly.” 

As soon as he leaves the room for the kitchen, wrapping the towel around his waist once more, Sansa gasps as if she’s finally come up for air.  

_How does Margaery do this all the time_ , Sansa wants to know, shaking her head.  

She finally pulls herself together when he wanders back in, a mug of steaming hot chocolate in each hand. The room is unheated but comfortable, the land breeze sweeping out to the Sunset Sea in the night, taking with it the summer heat across Lannisport. The mug of hot chocolate hits the spot perfectly and Sansa feels herself relaxing properly for the first time since she stepped into Jon’s apartment. 

She’s just taking in the few photo frames lining the sideboard behind the couch when one of them gives her pause. She picks up the silver frame and squints at it, frowning slightly. 

“I know her face!” Sansa stares again. “Oh my goodness, the similarity is amazing!” She stares at Jon. “Who is this woman?” 

“My mother,” he frowns. “Why?” 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42872647054/in/dateposted-public/)

It’s four in the morning when he finally types into the keypad and lets himself through his own front door. Petyr’s thoroughly worn out, and it’s just as well that _Big_ parties are once a month. Otherwise, he’s never getting a weekend at this rate. 

He’ll shower, then crawl into bed and sleep in until noon or before. Petyr lowers his shutters, draws the block-out curtains and flops right into bed instead. He’ll sleep in. Then he’ll catch up on his trading, hit the gym, and then do his rounds at the other venues before calling it a night. He needs to keep himself fresh for Wednesday, when Paradise 7’s week officially starts once more. 

And so the cycle goes and goes and goes… 

Petyr squeezes his eyes before he pries them open by sheer force of will. He really needs to get up, to wash the filth off him. The shower will jolt him awake temporarily, and then maybe he’ll have a half glass of something to lull his body back to rest. It will be his one and only drink for the night because Petyr never boozes when he’s working. 

He gets up. His body is weary as fuck. He’s forty-five and even though he’s still fit, he’s starting to feel his age. Slowly he strips off his clothes — his shoes, his socks, his cufflinks, his shirt, his pants… 

He stares down at himself. At _him_ , at the little guy, still half interested in the world outside his pants despite his own exhaustion. The dick, the cock, the schlong, and if you’re uncircumcised, the one-eyed trousered snake. This sausage, this strange, sensitive, expansible human appendage is apparently the fullest measure of a man — or at least many women at his _Big_ parties seem to believe it to be. Including Sansa.  

He knows he shouldn’t but he does it anyway, sliding open the top drawer. Digital callipers, man. They measure everything. Angle, girth, definitely distance and length… right down to the decimal point. 

It doesn’t take him very long to get from half-hard to hard enough. It’s ironic, really, because the next thing he does is almost self-deflating. He measures himself. 

6.9375 inches. Not seven. And definitely not _at least_  seven. Let alone eight inches of bloody Snow.  

Most men round up. Many men embellish. And Petyr is fully capable of duplicity, even bald-faced lying. But when it comes to this, he cannot. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

It takes him a while to realise 

  1. That isn’t a fire alarm in his dream. That is a real phone ringing.  

  2. That isn't his mobile ringing. It’s the house phone.  

  3. His mobile is still on Do Not Disturb for at least another two hours. Because it’s fucking 8am.  




“Yeah?” grunts Petyr, bloody cantankerous and barely awake. 

“Is this Mr Petyr Baelish?” 

“It is.” 

“Governor Tywin Lannister would like a meeting with you this morning.” 

Petyr blinked. “Come again?” 

“Nine o’clock. A meeting request has been sent to your inbox. Good day.” 


	2. MONTH 7 — 27.08.18

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/28641405847/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41824485550/in/dateposted-public/)

They are just checking in to the party when Sansa feels a tap on her shoulder. She spins around and immediately breaks into the brightest smile. 

“You’re here!” she cries, hugging Jon Snow before they exchange kisses. Petyr is confused. _Are they together? And if they are, what the hell are they doing at the party? Is this some kind of open relationship,_ Petyr wonders. Sansa really doesn't look like the sort.  

“What’s up with her?” Jon lifts his bearded chin at Margaery, who’s craning her neck and looking rather skittish. 

“She’s avoiding Harry,” Sansa explains. “Her date from the last _Big_ party.” 

“Didn’t work out, huh.” 

“He fucking used my thigh as a _tripod_ to hold his fucking lazy head up while he ate me out. It was a bloody disaster,” snapped Margaery, glaring at Jon like it were somehow now his fault. “Do you know what I think?” she goes on to huff and because she’s about to tell him anyway, Jon doesn’t prompt her. “It’s your big dicks, I swear. Men with dicks that big have never needed to learn how to give head properly — or at all! And why should you; you just rock up, and roll out the carpet and wait. Fucking lazy, all of you!” 

There’s a definite awkward silence as the people within a metre of Margaery take a tiny step back. She glares at a few of them and Sansa touches her arm gently. 

“Are you alright?” she whispers. “You seem rather agitated.” 

“Let’s just get this over and done with,” Margaery replies dully, which surprises Sansa. After all, _she’s_ the reason that they’re here at all! 

“I’m okay, chickie,” Margaery finally murmurs, squeezing her friend’s hand. But she isn’t, not really. Four times in a row, and nothing’s really stuck, nothing’s really caught her fancy. There's always something — lack of smarts, lack of ambition. Or if they had the two, then they were fugly, or batting for the other team, or married, or in therapy, or have a small dick with a huge Napoleon complex. And in Harrold’s case, his lousy work ethic spilled over to the bedroom. 

Should it be this hard? Margaery sighs, refusing to get negative and yet here she is, wondering. She’s not on a clock or anything — she doesn’t want children, she’s decided. But still. Deep down, she knows she’s looking. He doesn’t have to be perfect. And yet, why are they all so terribly _imperfect?_

“There has to be a compromise at some point, Margaery, “ Sansa had reasoned during dinner today. “You know human imperfection is a given. You just have to find out what it is on your long, long list that you’re willing to forgo.” 

None that Margaery knows of, honestly. 

She is just about to mentally write this whole night off, when there’s a ripple of something. A small commotion, up ahead. Margaery, Sansa and Jon are tip-toeing now, trying to see.  

“There,” Sansa points out, being the tallest of them all. “That guy.” 

Their own line is moving and it’s only when a couple of giraffes finally move on to their stations that Margaery gets a decent eyeful. And what an eyeful.  

"He's massive!" Sansa murmurs to no one in particular. She looks a little overwhelmed, frankly. 

For _he_ , as it turns out, is easily a whole head taller than the tallest man in the room, and built like a tank — broad-shouldered, thick-waisted, and seemingly immovable, with corded muscles down his arms. His clothes are meh and leave a lot to be desired. But it's his face that now holds Margaery’s attention. He had looked fairly average from the side, but then he had turned to scowl at someone behind him and all of them saw it. Scarring, practically half of his face smushed almost as if he’d melted and then dried up in the sun.   

He isn’t, what Margaery might call, a handsome man. 

But he’s massive. 

“Sandor,” he bark-snarls at Ros. They had set up an extra registration table this month and Ros is now typing away on her tablet, registering that wall of a man.  

“And what’s your number, sir.”  

“Thirteen.” 

There’s a small ripple moving out into the rest of the room at the declaration, followed immediately by at least twenty-five pairs of mascaraed eyes now turning to stare intently at his fly. 

Ros doesn’t say anything else, but calmly writes 13 in red.  

“Have a good evening, sir.” 

“We’ll see,” he grunts, before turning around to scowl down at the rest of the room. He catches Margaery’s eye then, and something in her loins has already gotten marvellously, scandalously curious. He’s a fucking _animal,_ a  _mountain!_ And Margaery suddenly wants to climb and conquer that thing, melty face and scraggly thin hair notwithstanding. 

“Fuck me,” she breathes as she stares right back. No one’s quite sure if she just cussed, or challenged the man. Maybe a bit of both.  

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

_Surely this is a mistake,_ Sansa panics, looking at her phone in disbelief. But there it is, plain as anything and unavoidable now. Joffrey Baratheon. Again. 

The last time he had five minutes with her about three months ago, he’d badgered her about his Instagram account. Not much has changed since then.  

“You didn’t follow me!” 

“I don’t Instagram,” she lies, giving him her best apologetic, silly-dinosaur-me smile. 

“’S’alright. I’ll wait.” And Joffrey sits back now, crossing his arms as he looks at her expectantly. 

_Oh gods,_ Sansa groans to herself. 

“I’ll have to make an account…” 

“Well, hurry up, then!” he whines. “You're taking so long!” 

She logs out of her real account and creates a fake one. Thank goodness he isn’t looking over her shoulder, Sansa thinks. “And do I look for Joffrey Baratheon?” she asks resignedly. 

“GoldenCockBoi. C-O-C-K-B-O-I, all one word.” 

_Lovely,_ Sansa grimaces.  

As soon as it loads, Sansa drops her phone in shock. It’s literally a wall of penises. Different angles, different lenses, different filters… of very average, very erect, slightly kinked penises. 

“You like it? They’re all mine!” he crows.  

“Is this some kind of a sick joke?!” Sansa chokes. She’s furious. 

“This is a dick party, isn’t it?” Joffrey scoffs. “Don’t act all cute and shy. You’re at a dick party. Well, here’s my portfolio! You like it, you might get to taste it!” 

He’s really done it now, Sansa decides. She picks up her phone from the floor and, without looking at the screen, flings it across the table at Joffrey’s tiny, weasel face, the corner smacking him in the mouth first.  

Joffrey screams. “YOU CUNT!” 

“You perverted little bastard!” Sansa seethes, her words piercing the newly-silenced room.   

And then in a flash, the owner of the establishment is there kneeling beside her. 

“What’s going on?” Petyr asks, his voice low and tight, but commanding. Without saying another word, Sansa picks up her phone —smashed screen and all — and flicks it on before handing it to him wordlessly.  

Petyr’s jaw tightens. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42915108124/in/dateposted-public/)

Tormund jumps into the seat in front of Sansa, just before her next date is about to slide in.  

“Uh…” the date says, looking about the room as if thoroughly confused, “I think you’re in my seat?” 

Tormund grunts, and then reaches across to spin and then squint at Sansa’s smashed screen, the one she’s quietly mourning now that Joffrey’s been forcibly removed and she’s finally calmed down. Management here is really attentive.   

“Dick…on,” Tormund pronounces slowly, then throws his head back and roars with laughter before suddenly turning to glare at him. “Beat it,” he says, pointing vaguely two o’clock of them. “There’s an empty seat. It’s mine. Take it. I gotta talk to my girl Sansa.” 

Dickon is tall, brawn, blonde, and has that little lost-boy look that ordinarily would endear him to Sansa. But truthfully, after Joffrey, she is secretly relieved that Tormund is in front of her instead. She’s had enough of blondes.  

“Sorry,” she smiles at Dickon and shrugs a little helplessly. “Maybe we can catch up at the bar later?”  

Dickon opens his mouth and closes it again, and then looks about the room fruitlessly. And because Tormund is ruddy and red-headed and bushy and shaped like a yeti, Dickon finally gives up and tries to hunt for that vacant seat. 

Tormund is desperate for advice. 

“She’s here! Again!” And they both stare at Sansa's five o’clock. 

“The yellow hair?” Sansa clarifies, taking in the short, cropped masculine hairdo and the hulking, hunching frame. 

“What do I say!” 

“Is she one of your dates?” Sansa is confused. Usually you only find out who you’re assigned next just after your current date is finished. But Sansa isn’t always technologically _au fait_ , not like Margaery. It wouldn’t surprise her if everyone else had figured out how to view their entire list of dates for the night and she had missed the hidden feature for five consecutive months. 

“I don’t care about the dates,” Tormund declares. “Are you kidding me? I bought one of those damn 250-dragon tickets just so I could try and see her again! I’m bloody lucky she came back!” 

_Awww,_ Sansa thinks. _That’s actually really sweet._

“What do you like about her?” she prompts. 

“She’s sturdy, built like a house!” He beams and means it as a compliment. “And fucking fierce too. I heard about her. She’ll be able to take me, I’m sure of it! I like me a fight in bed, I do!” 

Sansa smiles and shakes her head slightly. “Tell her you like her eyes.” 

“What the fu—“ 

“Do you like her eyes?” 

“I like a lot more than her eyes.” 

“She’s got beautiful eyes, Tormund. Don’t treat her like a hunk of meat! Tell her she’s got beautiful eyes and mean it. Focus on what interests her. Find something you have in common—“ 

“—Like how she likes fucking?”  

“—outside of the bedroom,” Sansa qualifies hurriedly. It’s like toilet training a toddler, honestly. Repetition, and using really simple words, and then expecting a stinky mess for ages until he gets it right.  

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

Margaery is staring at the kid sitting opposite of her. _Pod_. He looks, honestly, a little too intellectually-challenged for her tastes. But his tag says 9.25. Not all thick heads are bad, Margaery concedes.    

She decides to level with him.   

“You look like a kid.” And he doesn’t react, which is neither here nor there for Margaery. “How will I know you’ve got the goods?” She flicks her eyes southward meaningfully and then looks back up at him. And then, there’s finally signs of life. 

He lifts his chin slightly to his right and Margaery looks over to the woman sitting just beside her in the next station. She takes in the sheer size of her neighbour, fully registering now the cornish yellow short hair, the baby-blue dress that’s supposed to match her eyes except it looks ludicrous on her, frankly. She looks like a man in drag, make-up and all. 

Both the giant and her date have apparently given up their own inane chit-chat and are just listening in now, utterly engrossed with Margaery’s line of questioning. 

“Ask her,” Pod mutters, and Margaery is perplexed when the giant thinks about it grimly before giving a single solemn nod.   

_Huh._  

Well. If it’s good enough for the giant, thinks Margaery staring southward of Pod again, it’s worth a shot. He’s not Sandor, but maybe she needs to work up to that. Thirteen is nothing to sneeze at. 

Margaery sighs. “Fine, I’ll put you down as a yes.” 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42915131394/in/dateposted-public/)

Sansa is waiting for Margaery now, at their usual corner, though her friend is nowhere to be seen. The gong sounded four, five minutes ago and Sansa looks around the room uneasily. She really doesn’t fancy getting cornered by someone while on her own. Joffrey had rattled her more than she liked, and she hadn’t Yes-ed anyone.   

She should really just go home.  

Jon makes a beeline for her and before she can ask if he’s gotten a drink, he blurts out, “Dany. Her name is Dany.”  

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

It takes a little while and a bit of manoeuvring, but Petyr finally gets a chance to speak with Sansa alone. Jon Snow has finally left her side, his familiarity with Sansa still rather disturbing, and Margaery is otherwise detained at the bar. 

“Miss Stark,” he begins, and is immediately rewarded with a gentle smile.  

“Please,” she says softly, “call me Sansa.” 

“Sansa,” he tastes her name, enjoying the privilege. “I just wanted to check in, to see if you’re alright.” 

She nods. “I’m fine, I think. Thank you for handling it so quickly.” 

“I’m only sorry that you ended up with him at all,” Petyr admits. _Again,_ he almost lets slip. But she cannot know how closely he monitors her, how tempting it has been for him to break into his own system and override the algorithm, just for her. How seriously tempting it has been for him to commission a whole rewrite of his app just so he can sabotage it all, carefully arrange it so the men who come by her table are duds. Just so she can’t possibly, she won’t ever go home with any of them, crawl into their beds, and have her way with their super-sized cocks.   

It’s self-defeating anyway. If she keeps having only assholes come by, she’ll never come back again. Catch 22. 

“Paradise 7 will pay for the repair of your screen,” he says instead, gesturing at her phone. “It’s the least we can do.” 

“Oh no,” Sansa shakes her head, looking taken aback. “It’s not your fault!” 

“I insist,” Petyr says. “I feel we didn’t protect you enough.” 

“Me?”  

“As a woman on our premises and a loyal patron of _Big_ ,” Petyr adds hastily. “My company takes the safety of our customers very seriously. This could have been avoided.” 

But it wasn’t, Petyr grimaces, thanks to his latest off-the-books client.  

She shakes her head again, but he senses he’s winning the battle. “It will be my pleasure,” Petyr reassures her. “And our insurance will cover it.” 

It won’t. Petyr will cover this particular bill. He wants to. It’s like a gift, almost — the only one he’s allowed to bestow. _Utter sap._

“What happened to Joffrey?”  

And Petyr simply shrugs. “He’ll never bother you again.” Even though he’s the oldest grandson of the man he’s meeting tomorrow. This could cost him in more ways than one. But Sansa is worth it, Petyr calculates. 

“Next month,” Petyr suddenly determines, “there will be panic buttons installed under each station.” 

“Next month,” Sansa smiles sadly, “I don’t think I’ll plan to be here.” 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

He watches from the window as she kisses Jon Snow goodbye, as the other huge red hairy bugger later sweeps her up and gives her a hug before also taking his leave. Margaery’s already left for the night, her Mr Yes looking barely old enough to start shaving.  

Petyr watches as Sansa stands alone for a while, as cab after cab unbelievably whizzes by. _Can they not see,_ he wonders. _She’s wonderful and tall and needs a ride._

It is far too much, far too telling for him to run upstairs, to grab his keys, to offer to drive her home. He has a business to run. It’s only just touching midnight. There’s hours to go. His patrons are not sufficiently off their faces from all that alcohol they have yet to buy. 

He has a business to run. But she’s out there and alone and cannot get a cab. It’s a lousy time of night to try and get one, honestly. They’re changing shifts right about now, and drunk patrons are always high-risk to upholstery. And Sansa is far too polite.   

The decision is sudden when it’s made, and Petyr excuses himself now and ignores the teeming throng demanding his attention as he exits the building, as he walks to her.  

“Allow me,” he says and walks right out to the street and whistles through his fingers so sharply, nearby revellers stop and stare. A cab blares his horn as Petyr refuses to yield his position.  

“Get out of my way,” yells the cabbie. 

“You’ve got a passenger,” Petyr answers coolly instead, and then gestures for Sansa to come over. The cabbie forgives him instantly the moment he realises how sober and sweet-faced Sansa is. 

He opens the door, holds her hand as he helps her inside. He resists the deepest urge to rub his thumb across her slim, cool fingers. Satisfied finally that she’s safely ensconced, Petyr taps the hood of the cab twice and accepts her thanks as the driver pulls away.  

He doesn’t know if he’ll see her again. He stands there until they hit the second set of lights, until they turn the corner. 

Eventually, he walks back inside. Ros is just looking at him with a _look_. 

“What!” he finally snaps, self-conscious and irritable and moody. 

“Nothing,” she lies in return. 

  ~ • ~ • ~ 

His mood still hasn’t improved by the morning. Just her words — _I don’t think I’ll plan to be here._ They loop and loop and loop in his head. 

_How can I change her mind, how can I see her again?_

He wants to throttle that skinny sonofabitch. _Joffrey,_ Petyr seethes, picturing strangling his little shitty head until it pops like a ripe pimple. But he can’t even afford to do that.  

“Governor Lannister will see you now.” And Petyr rises from the couch, taking his silvery-gold digital tablet with him.  

The man with the corner office, the man with the view of the city that he holds in the palm of his hand is pacing his carpet, his stern face sterner than usual, his impatience crackling like static in the dry, cool air. 

“Well?” Tywin asks, sitting behind his desk so large and tall, it makes Petyr feel tiny. Probably deliberate, thinks Petyr. But then again, Governor Lannister is a tall man, and no less powerful in spite of his age and thinning hair. 

“How does this work?” 

And Petyr turns his tablet on. “I’ve compiled a list of women that seem to fit your requirements.”  

Petyr walks around now until he’s behind Tywin’s desk, until he’s able to place his tablet before him. “Just scroll,” he invites. “Their profiles appear when you hit that corner icon.” 

What they’re doing now, it’s illegal in at least fourteen regions and almost all the capital cities. But thank goodness Lannisport is rather lax about harvesting information gleaned from social media. And cross-matching tools. And oh, audio recordings of private conversations held in public spaces, without needing to procure prior consent.  

It’s kinda handy to be governor, Petyr thinks wryly. 

He stands respectfully behind Tywin as the older man scrolls. Tywin flips through them quickly first, which makes Petyr’s heart sink. But that seems to be an exercise about first impressions. Tywin then scrutinises his shortlist, shooting Petyr questions that sit outside the statistics listed in the profiles. _Who is their family. What do they do. What’s their highest level of education. How tall are they._ Tywin has a particular height requirement that seems to exist solely in his head, and which he doesn’t feel at all inclined to disclose at this stage.  

Petyr doesn’t tell him about Sansa. He will never tell him about Sansa.  


	3. MONTH 8 — 24.09.18

 

He is just walking towards his office at the back and he happens to glance past the security room — a habit dyed into him over the years — when he sees her, clear as day. In his bar. 

All thought of grilling Finance over the payroll, all plans to meet with new property developers, all that gets parked, gets dropped, gets sidelined as Petyr dumps his briefcase on the nearest table and turns around, heading straight back where he came from. He doesn’t run, but his strides are wide and his chosen path, efficient.  

She’s still there when he enters from the side, when he slips behind the bar and taps Olyvar’s shoulder, telling his bartender silently to bugger off for a bit, let him take over the drinks. The pop of the freshly uncorked bottle draws Sansa’s attention away from the door and she looks surprised before she breaks into a warm smile that goes right down to his toes. 

“I didn’t know _remedy_ is one of yours too!” she cries, sounding impressed.  

“It is,” is the simple reply. He smiles at her and feels his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Ordering a drink?” 

“Just a glass of your house red.” Her smile changes slightly; she looks a little curious now. “You know,” she shares with him now, "I don’t know what it is about your clubs and bars… I usually can’t drink, it makes me break out in hives. And yet I never do in any of your establishments.” 

He just smiles, filling her glass, careful to hide the label. Very early on, Petyr had worked out that Sansa was probably allergic to either the tannins or the preservatives in most wine. He had taken a chance and ordered a few cases of the sulphur-free variety; the choicest sweet red done in this way comes all the way from Essos, as it turns out. They don’t keep for very long of course, but if it keeps her coming back to him, it pays for itself. He’s lucky he thought to keep two bottles here at _remedy_ , just in case.  

All of them know. All of them have been trained to break out the Volantene Cabernet Merlot when Sansa or her friend orders a drink.  

“How are you liking the _Big_ parties?” he’s asking casually now, careful not to stare at her too intently as if he’s trying to scan her every facial tick for clues. “Do you like the people you meet? Are they your type? It’s important to me,” he explains, “that we continue to put a quality event together. Joffrey aside, how has every other event been? You’re one of my regulars now.” 

She flushes a little. _Oh dear,_ she suddenly realises, _what must he think of me, coming every month to an event with such an explicit specialisation! And then to keep coming back…_ But he seems genuinely curious and there’s no judgement in his eyes, only a kind of patience, a gentleness. _Don’t be silly,_ she tells herself. _He’s a businessman. He’s trying to get feedback that can help him grow his business. He doesn’t care who I bring home, why would he._

But what does she say? Apart from that awkward evening with Jon — the less said about that, the better — she hadn’t remotely clicked with anyone else that way. And some of those numbers on the tags horrify her, just quietly. But she can’t ever tell him, for instance, that lately she’d stare at a garden-variety carrot, or wonder about a Slaver’s Bay banana, or contemplate the smooth, rounded tip of a Crownland cucumber… Some days, she tries to fathom something as stretching as a purple Duskendale aubergine between her thighs, just slipping in and out of her over and over again. And all she can think about then is _ow fuckity ow ow._

And as for her time with Davos early on, when the penile proof was finally in the pudding, as a manner of speaking… when it became quite clear in the process that they were not well suited at all, well… He was a real gent, but he never called and he never, ever went back to _Big_ again.  

And yet, Sansa knows of so many others who have found satisfaction in many ways. 

“Sometimes it can be a good fit,” she finally trusts herself to say without feeling like she’s lying. She doesn’t want to discourage Petyr, poor man. It’s such a bold, clever idea and Margaery loves _Big_. He should really ask her because Sansa just isn’t his typical customer, not really. _Her_  own true opinion shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t be representative of the whole. 

He keeps his face interested, his smile polite and encouraging, but something in Petyr wilts at her words. _So that confirms it — she has slept with some of them at least._ But he instantly chides himself for even hoping that she didn’t.  

_A good fit,_ she had said. Then Petyr literally falls short. 6.9375 inches. 

“Can I ask a favour?” 

“But of course, Sansa.” Petyr forces his smile to brighten. “Anything for my favourite customer!” And she laughs as if he says that to everyone he meets. 

“You probably get this a lot, but can I ask when you’re releasing tickets for the next _Big?_ ” 

Petyr’s eyebrows lift. “I thought you’re not coming anymore!” 

Sansa smiles guiltily. “I think I was hasty. And Margaery really wants to go,” she adds quickly. 

“I’ll get you tickets by the end of the night. Two?” 

And Sansa looks taken aback before her smile is grateful. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures her. “Consider it payment for your impromptu customer feedback.” 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

The bar is starting to fill up now in earnest and Sansa waits until Petyr excuses himself to tend to his other customers before she flicks her phone on and glances at the time. Margaery is late, very late. They were supposed to meet for drinks here half an hour ago at Margaery’s insistence (“Won’t take no for an answer, Sans!”) and in typical fashion, Margaery hadn’t called or messaged to say she was running behind schedule again. _She’s a busy woman,_ Sansa tries to remember. And yet, Margaery _knows_ that Sansa has never enjoyed sitting in a bar alone, even in an elegant, upmarket one like _remedy_. For in such places, it seems to be a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of solitude must be in want of male company and a terrible pick-up line.  

Thank goodness Petyr has been keeping her company instead, Sansa smiles. What good timing, really. And he’s such a good listener, but that is probably down to his professionalism. After all, that’s what distinguishes good businesses from great ones like his, isn’t it. Customer service. 

_Forty-five minutes!_ Sansa fumes. She glances over at Petyr, but it’s really getting crowded now as the rest of the office crowd spill into the room and there are three bartenders flipping drinks now, Petyr being one of them. She watches him handle the orders with a smoothness and dexterity that can only be honed after years of doing this, surely. It’s quite a performance, but eventually Sansa hops down from her stool, freeing it up for someone else who probably needs it more than she does. 

Because she’s had it. She’s going home. 

She’s just about to pull the door handle towards her when it opens the other way. There’s a split-second before Tormund’s glare inverts to a marvellous grin. 

“My girl!” he roars because Tormund doesn’t do inside-voice ever, and then he’s enveloping her in a long bear hug that creases her pale silk blouse but she really doesn’t mind. “You’re not leaving already?!” 

“Margaery’s stood me up,” Sansa grumbles. 

“Then come-a sit with me!” And he half-escorts, half-drags her to a booth.  

“Yer thirsty?” She shakes her head, grinning in spite of herself.  

“I’ve already had a glass. I don’t want another.” 

“Lemonade it is!” he announces to the room, almost. Tormund stands and side-shuffles past their table, bumping into it at least thrice before striding purposefully to the bar. 

“I’ve found her!” he announces later in a version of a whisper that still carries across their table in the crowded room. 

“No!” Sansa cries in a faux scandalised voice, genuinely delighted for her friend. 

“Finally tracked her down.” Tormund doesn’t even touch his pint, which is really saying something about his excitement. “Brienne — that’s her name — she’s some athlete. Some fencing professional, world games, everything. But now she’s gone private because of an injury. Fucking brilliant!” And Tormund corrects himself as Sansa’s eyes widen, “—Not her injury, just… I saw her the other day, you know? Parked my car in the middle of nowhere and just started following her like a shit spy.” He laughs. “The parking tickets, Sansa! Got me wheels clamped… This woman is costing me a sack o' dragons!” 

“Did she see you?” Sansa is fascinated. 

“Fuck yeah,” he grins sheepishly. “She ran.” 

Sansa’s peal of laughter tinkles across the rowdy babble in the room, riding above the syncopation of glass clinking so Petyr turns to look at her once more.   

_So that’s who she was waiting for,_ he frowns unhappily. One of the dates she met her third month, he recognises now. It figures. Petyr watches as Tormund says something else that causes Sansa to laugh so hard, she has to bring her napkin up to cover her mouth. Something in him dies just a little more and maybe it’s fucking hope. Petyr stands there and struggles to remember the number on Giantsbane’s tag. 

“How ‘bout you, my girl,” Tormund finally asks. “You seeing anyone?”  

And Sansa shakes her head. “No.” 

“Even after all these months at BIG? Pretty girl like you?” He spreads an arm out feelingly to the rest of the room. "QUEUE of cocks!” he declares. 

She glances quickly to her left and sees Petyr leaving the bar and slipping through a hidden side door painted the same almost-black as the rest of the room. The door swings back shut just as she sees him climb the stairs slowly. _He’s always so busy,_ she thinks, _running all of these clubs and bars and more…_

She looks around the room, taking in the buffet of gorgeous, articulate, educated, put-together women before her. She’s never seen him with anyone but even if he had to pick, there are probably thousands he encounters in his work. If he’s single, she’s betting that he’s single by choice.  

_Or maybe he has a woman that he sees in the day that you just don’t know about,_ she thinks now but just as quickly sets that thought aside.   

She shrugs at Tormund. “It’s not so easy,” she admits. 

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/41720432030/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/29800595868/in/dateposted-public/)

“Sans,” Margaery hisses, motioning her over. “You’ve got to hear this!” 

There’s a growing gaggle of women crowding someone in the centre and they’re listening in with much interest. Margaery can always smell news and the both of them jostle in, inching closer to listen. 

“It’s that girl!” Margaery nudges Sansa now. “The one that went home with thirteen.” 

“Thirteen men?” recoils Sansa in horror.  

“No, no! Mister 13…” And Margaery tilts her head the other way so Sansa turns and spies Sandor in the corner of the room covered in deep blue denim and still wearing the same scowl from last month. 

“So how was it?” someone finally blurts. “Does he check out?” 

The slender girl in the centre — fairly attractive with her dark hair and eyes — nods emphatically. “He checks out,” she says quite softly, so they’re both half lip-reading her. “He really is 13 inches.” 

There’s a resulting collective of “sheeeeit…” and “fuck me” and “that’s gotta hurt” that ripples through everyone listening in. 

“How big is that?!” And then at least three women start diving into their handbags. Margaery does as well, rooting around the many little pockets until she finally finds what she’s looking for. It’s a small disc that fits easily in the palm of her hand and she finds the tongue on the edge and starts to pull. A few others around them turn to look on interestedly. 

“You got the centimetre side,” someone helpfully points out and Margaery gives her newfound assistant a withering look. 

“Thirteen!” Margaery finally pronounces as she holds up her tape measure proudly and a few more heads turn to stare. 

“Oh my gods, that’s fucking long!” someone breathes. 

“That’s a bloody _Ye Ti Magic Wand_ right there!” someone points out. 

“No it isn’t,” Myranda Royce replies with authority. She’s obviously spent some time thinking about this one. “The _Ye Ti_ is 12 inches. Sandor is bigger than that!”   

“Bigger than the _Ye Ti!_ ” someone else yelps, as if one just got lodged into her on full-vibrate. 

“Except you’re not supposed to actually fuck the _Ye Ti_ ,” Myranda points out. She jerks her head towards Sandor. “But him?” 

“Thirteen!” someone else murmurs while staring at the tape measure in a daze. Margaery clicks the button in the centre of the disc and everyone watches the flick-back as the tape retracts with a _prrrrrr_.   

“Did you do it, Jeyne?” a tall, attractive older woman finally asks, arching her eyebrow at the brunette in the centre. All eyes swivel back to her now. 

“I um… we tried?” Jeyne looks embarrassed, sheepish, and defensive all at once. “But it didn’t really go anywhere.” 

Someone towards the back snort-giggles over the unfortunate use of words. 

“I need a smoke,” mutters Margaery, desperately looking around. What a day. She’s horny, she’s tired, she’s intrigued, and if she’s absolutely truthful, she’s also suddenly depressed — though she’s not altogether sure what about. 

Podrick Payne had surprised Margaery, in that he turned out to be a lovely size and quite creative in bed. They had spent most of the month shagging each other stupid, really. But up until now, she still isn’t quite sure what he does for work and instinct has kept her from digging around too much. Probably because she expects to be disappointed.  

It’s swings and roundabouts, really. Pod is a lot of fun, precisely because he almost never talks at all. And after a full day of schmoozing for a living, it’s honestly a relief to come home and just park the brain for a bit. 

But that’s hardly a sustainable arrangement either. Not in the long-term anyway. For in the end, Margaery has come to increasingly realise that she’s craving something else — something more. Someone she can respect from bedroom to boardroom.  

There’s a guilty, shrivelling silence that falls over the group when Sandor towers over them suddenly, demanding to know why the hell they keep staring at him. “I can see you all,” he growls. And then his eyes flick towards the cringing frame of Jeyne in the middle. 

“You been talking?” he sighs. He sounds resigned.  

“A little,” she admits, to her credit. 

“Well?” he demands to know now, staring down at the women before him. He catches Sansa’s eye and for a moment there, his face twists even more in faint disgust, almost as if to say, _not you too!_

 Sansa suddenly feels _awful_. 

“I’m here now,” he repeats himself, glaring at the semi-circle before him. “What do you want to know?” 

There’s an awkward silence and Sandor sniffs loudly. Margaery wonders if he’s about to spit on the ground. 

And then Myranda speaks up. “Are you the biggest?” 

“Biggest what, woman. Speak up.” 

“Do you have the biggest cock in Westeros, you think? Like, naturally the biggest cock, no implants? Do you hold the record, you know?” 

And to be fair, quite a few of them have been wondering the same. 

Sandor sniffs.  

“My _brother_ ,” he spits the word, "probably has the biggest prick in Lannisport. But he’s also the biggest cunt, so as far as I’m concerned, he can go fuck himself. Any other questions?” 

And as it turns out, no. 

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/29800709058/in/dateposted-public/)

“Jon!” Sansa is just standing for a good stretch when she catches sight of him just as he’s about to pass her. But something’s wrong. She clutches his wrist. “You okay?” 

The jazz is playing overhead again and Jon Snow is on his way to the table, though in truth, he’s no longer really that interested. He shrugs, mouth still downturned. 

“What happened!” Sansa’s eyes are blue orbs of concern.  

“That girl, Dany. The one I told you about?” He sighs heavily. “Found someone.”  

“What?” 

“Big guy. Khal. Looks like he’s from Essos way. Apparently she likes it rough.” 

“What! How do you know?”  

“Men talk too,” Jon sighs, scratching his head unhappily. “You know,” he moans, “I could take her roughly if she likes. I mean… I could do the whole animal-sex thing, I’m sure of it.”  

“I’m sure you can,” Sansa clucks sympathetically. 

"I mean, I’m built…”

“Yes you are!” 

“And I know I’m not as tall as he is, but I’m a nice size!” 

And Sansa tries hard not to blush when she says very truthfully, “You’ve got an incredible body, Jon. Especially your butt. You’ve got a gorgeous ass.”  

“You think?” 

“I know so.” She envelopes him in a gentle hug. “I’m sorry you missed out. Maybe she’ll come back?” 

“She’s not coming back,” Jon shakes his head. “She’s not even here. And neither is Khal Drogo. Gods, even his _name_ sounds rough and exciting compared to pale white lily Jon Snow…” 

“Honey…” And Sansa squeezes his hand. They’re running out of time as people are taking their places. Her date has arrived and is trying his darnedest not to appear as if he’s eavesdropping. “Maybe you should think about moving on.” 

“I can’t!” But then just as quickly, he asks, “What do you mean?” 

“See that redhead over there?” And she tilts her chin northeast of the room. “Wiry thing, sitting opposite the tall balding older gentleman who looks a bit scared? That one?” 

“Yeah…?” 

“She’s been staring at you for _months_.” Sansa grins. “Why don’t you take a closer look later at the bar? See if you can find a friend in her.”  

“I don’t know…” Jon sighs heavily again.  

“We should probably get started,” Sansa squeezes his wrist again apologetically. “But tell you what — I’ll introduce you to a new friend of mine. He’s in a similar boat to you, so he’s looking to get sloshed. We can catch up for drinks somewhere else after this. I’ll drive. What do you think?” 

Jon Snow finally cracks a tiny smile. _Thank the gods for newfound cousins you accidentally almost sleep with,_ he thinks to himself.  

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

It’s almost the end of the night when Sandor's shadow looms over her before he rounds the table in a single stride, yanks the chair back and drops into it heavily. 

The red 13 on his name tag is smudged, which only draws her attention to it all the more. Sansa blushes immediately. 

“Lookatcha,” he starts and it almost sounds like a sneer. “You’re like an exotic bird.” 

“Pardon?” Sansa asks, confused, her present guilt and awkwardness forgotten.  

“Beauty and the beast, right here.” He gestures to the empty space between them with his giant hand. And then he sighs. “So what are we doing, huh?” He flips his hand impatiently at the room. “All this — working for you? What are you doing here anyway?” 

_This is turning out to be a very strange interview,_ thinks Sansa. But she senses something else as well. 

And she has to clear the air between them first, if only to make herself feel better. 

“I’m sorry about what happened back there.” Sansa’s eyes dart to the spot in the room where he had found them all gossiping about him earlier. “I realise now that it must have been… unkind.” 

And even though all he does is to grunt at her words, something in his mottled face softens a fraction in the mood lighting.  

“Used to it,” he finally says by way of accepting her apology. “And you… you’re a proper lady, not like half these hoes in the room. So I ask again — what are you doing here?” 

And for the first time in months, Sansa realises that she’s never been asked that before. And it’s a very good question indeed.   

“I’m not sure,” she finally admits. “I’m here for Margaery, my friend… It’s become our monthly thing. And I guess I’m looking as well, like everyone else here is. For something — a connection, a spark, someone I can click with. Good company.” 

“You’re fishing in the wrong pond,” Sandor returns harshly. “Everyone here is shallow as a dirty puddle. They want a good fuck, or they think they’re going to get one with a big cock. That’s all this is.”  

“No it isn’t,” Sansa insists. “I’ve met all sorts of decent people here. Yes, it can be all that and some people are here for that sort of thing. But there are many others who are genuinely looking for more.” 

He scoffs at her words, but again she senses a softening. That poor man, she realises now. There must be a measure of loneliness for someone who looks as unique as he does, who also comes with… such baggage. 

“Don’t give up,” she leans in now, eyes alight and earnest. “There’s someone out there for you, I’m sure of it.” She looks around the room at the tallest women she can see. “There’s bound to be someone who will be a good fit — in every way.” 

He scoffs softly again, but he starts to look around the room now, her optimism rubbing off despite himself.  

“Maybe not her,” Sansa hesitates when his gaze falls on Brienne. Her loyalties are still with Tormund after all.  

Sandor rolls his eyes but when he finally fixes his gaze on Sansa, something almost like humour now colours the gray of his eyes. 

“Alright, little bird.” His voice is hoarse but decidedly gentler. There’s a friendly pause between them, almost like they’ve arrived at a truce. Sandor leans back in the chair, relaxing for the first time this evening. Pity there’s only a minute to go.  

“Been the first real conversation of the night, little bird.” He gives a curt nod. “I’m glad you’re at the _Big_  parties, even if you don’t really want to be.” 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

He cannot make her out, he decides, shaking his head irritably. Is she a player, Petyr wonders. For every time he looks at Sansa, there’s a different man having some sort of deep-and-meaningful with her. They know her name, they seem so familiar with her, so warm… And she’s so welcoming to each and every one of them, that’s what drives him insane most of all. _Which is it!_ Petyr wants to shout. _Who do you want!_ It’s turning into bloody torment, honestly. Just watching all these men, just waiting for one of them to finally whisk her away only for her never to return… 

It’s the guessing that is killing him, Petyr realises. He’s pored over the recordings, whatever he’s been able to catch from each five-minute date. Some are informative, some don’t tell him anything at all. Some recordings turn out to be shit, so he can’t hear anything.  

And then of course, there’s this black hole of knowledge whenever she leaves his club and he’s left to wonder the rest of the night if she’s slept with someone. And if so, whether she’ll ever return.  

He’s returned downstairs and the results are in. But Sansa hadn’t bothered logging in any Yeses tonight, which is the other thing that completely flummoxes Petyr. What is her game? What does she do? He has no doubt that she’s mesmerising enough to pull a man without ever depending on a Yes Match. Is that it? She doesn’t even bother logging in her choices, she just grazes and picks at the end of the night? 

But she’s leaving now, and Petyr ducks into the cloakroom so he can watch her from the window. Again, she’s alone. Margaery’s already left the premises — also alone — citing an uncharacteristic headache. He watches Sansa as she stands at the curb, her thin summer jacket folded neatly over her arm, her beautiful hair still flowing in perfect waves down her back, over her shoulder. Her soft, short sequinned dress catches in the full moonlight and she looks lovelier than ever. Petyr reaches forward, touching the glass. His fingers lingering over where she stands. 

She turns around as if someone has called her name and he watches now as Tormund strides forward, throwing his arms around her and then lifting her off her feet so she squeals slightly. He’s already half drunk, Petyr knows. And yet tendrils of icy cold steal around his chest as that big, fat, red-haired knob of a man drops his hand to her waist, as they lean in and whisper sweet-nothings in earnest. As she stands on tiptoe and gives him a long, lingering hug. 

And then it gets worse, if that were even possible. For Curly Mop Beefcake joins them now, ambling over to Sansa. She breaks away from Tormund, looking excited. Both men shake hands solemnly, and then Petyr watches as Jon flags down a cab, as Tormund enters first before Jon guides her in after him, his hand pressed possessively on the small of her back.  

Three of them! Going gods know where. Probably back to her place, perhaps. Or one of the other two… He closes his eyes and gives a shake but too late — he sees them already. This frenzy of flesh and hair and her moaning for more and giant, giant, fucking GIANT COCKS… 

Petyr storms out, almost crashing into a surprised Ros.  

“What’s up, boss?” she asks, but he ignores her as he brushes past, as he weaves his way through the crowd to the long stair, as he sprints up the length of it two, three steps at a time.  

He cannot get away from this gods-forsaken party. He cannot get away fast enough. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

There’s a soft knock on the door and Petyr yells, “I’m not here!” in the dark. The door opens anyway.  

That’d be right. He controls nothing anymore. Not his staff, and most definitely not his love life.   

The lights flick on and Petyr squints as his eyes adjust. “I don’t want them on!” he scowls, but Ros ignores him anyway, shutting the door behind her and locking it. 

She sits by him and still he doesn’t look at her, glaring instead out the window at the full moon. He supposes he should thank her, really, for holding down the fort. For keeping things together when he finally lost it and retreated like a petulant child. 

“What’s going on, boss?” 

And he takes a moment or two before he finally declares his intention. “This is the last _Big Party_ ,” he says quietly, before bringing his Highgarden tumbler to his lips.  

“This is about the redhead,” Ros replies instead. 

“It isn’t.” 

“Why don’t you just go after her, Petyr! It’s not like you’re her doctor or her boss!” There’s a small catch in her voice at the last that Petyr doesn’t notice. “There’s no conflict of interest, is there!” 

“It’s not about Sansa.” 

“Bullshit,” Ros replies quietly. 

There’s a moody silence that falls after that. Petyr just can’t give a fuck anymore.  

“I’m not her type,”  

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” Ros scoffs and leans over now, firmly taking his glass of whiskey away from him. “Look here — this is so unlike you! You’re a tenacious bugger. You never give up until you get what you want. Why is this so different?” 

_She’s got a point,_ Petyr realises. He almost wants to scowl. It’s annoying when someone else is smarter than him in the room. 

_But when it comes to Sansa…_ He sighs. He’s compromised from the get-go. With her, he just can’t think straight. 

The logical thing is to move on, really. No matter how successful he could hope to be with Sansa outside the bedroom, what would be the bloody point? She’s already made her pussy preferences very clear. 

“You can’t stop the parties anyway,” Ros points out stubbornly. “Not until at least ONE customer gets full satisfaction.” 

Petyr groans. He had entirely forgotten about Tywin. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

_Better,_ Tywin thinks. _But still not good enough._

It’s a tricky business, this. Tywin is no fool, he’s not insensitive to the near-impossibility of the task he’s given Baelish. Especially since the job brief is specific, but the actual fulfilment of it, the satisfactory delivery of results is so contingent on factors as intangible as gut and  _feelings_ and a recognition of kinship, of being cut from the same cloth.   

He’ll know her when he sees her. That’s his instinct on this. But meanwhile, all he has is words.  

“Governor,” Petyr speaks again. “So as to ensure my third attempt is more successful, I need to ask a few more questions.” 

“Go ahead,” Tywin invites quietly. 

From the hesitation, from the way Petyr is so obviously shaping his words, Tywin starts to guess that he’s finally going to address the elephant in the room. 

“I’m wondering,” Petyr begins,” if the woman you hope to engage for the top job is someone who is able to handle your… largess.” 

Tywin raises a single eyebrow. “Go on.” 

“How…” And Petyr stops, before he tries again. “Is the… endowment fund… large?” 

“Yes.”  

“Even… after a withdrawal is made?” 

“Yes.”  

Petyr clears his throat. “Give me a rough figure, maybe… Are we talking nine? Ten?” 

“Twelve.” 

“Ah, says Petyr. “In that case, we’ve narrowed the field considerably.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, the _Ye Ti Magic Wand_ is heavily inspired by the infamous [Hitachi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitachi_Magic_Wand).


	4. MONTH 9 — 22.10.18

She is just about to stick the charger in her phone when it rings in her hand. 

“Sansa,” Margaery’s low voice fills the phone. “Sorry to call so late, darl.” 

“It’s alright,” Sansa assures her, sinking slowly into her bed. She flicks her eyes to the clock facing her bed. It’s very late. “Everything okay?” 

“Well,” Margaery hesitates. And Margaery seldom hesitates. “That’s the thing… I’m not sure.” 

And at that, Sansa sits up straight, suddenly alert. “What’s wrong!” 

“Are you sitting down?” Margaery cautions her. “Because I have a huge favour to ask. And I need to talk through this thing, if I’m really going to do it.” 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

_Do you even wear ties to these things…_

Tywin stands in front of the mirror alone. This decision… it’s been a long, long time since he’s not had anyone dictate to him what to wear and how to wear it. Blue suit (Dornish cut), red tie. Meeting with the labourers down in Broom? Tie off, shoes adequately scuffed, though not too much so it looks deliberate for the cameras. Meeting with Braavosi banking assholes, switch to the top shine. Dark grey pinstripe suit, double-breasted. Tie back on. 

Going on a semi-blind date? There isn’t a focus group in seven heavens or hells he’d allow anywhere near him now to say. But suddenly Tywin is standing in front of his mirror alone, wondering. Is it tie on, or tie off? 

Maybe it’s just as well that this turned out to be a double semi-blind date. Because just quietly, it is fucking unnerving already to be doing this alone. And Tywin is wholly unused to being the unnerved, having so often been the one to exercise the power and privilege of _unnerving_.  

He stares at himself in the mirror, at the gods-damned tie. He looks like a politician. Fuck it. Tie off.  

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

Her signatures are starting to look funny, Sansa thinks. She’s had to sign and date every page to demonstrate that she’s read the terms. _All_ the terms. And now her signature is starting to look funny. The legal guy, he’d gone through each and every line explaining patiently as though she and Margaery were small children incapable of independent reading and comprehension until Margaery finally snapped. Which did nothing. The legal eagle paused, and then continued like nothing had happened, like Margaery didn’t just bite his head off. She owns her own company, for crying out loud. 

What the hell kind of date is this, wonders Sansa now, that they each have to sign a confidentiality agreement? 

“You sure you want to go through with this?” Sansa asks yet again, speaking out the side of her mouth in a low murmur. “Not afraid they’re going to take us out to the back and shoot us?” 

“Where’s your sense of adventure!” Margaery grins, but even she is starting to wonder now. Petyr had been very courteous and persuasive on the phone, and then again in person. And by the end, she was certainly very flattered and intrigued. To be especially handpicked, among _thousands_ … It should trouble Margaery that he even keeps a dossier on her, and yet somehow she’s more curious than anything. 

She had asked her questions, and Petyr had answered as best as he can. So she’s walking into this already knowing that this man, her date, is wildly successful at what he does, that he’s considered attractive (even handsome), that his business isn’t illegal — just that his circumstances do not allow him to date in the traditional sense. So a public figure then, she had deduced. And Petyr had politely refused to answer anymore, citing that he had reached the edges of his remit.  

So he’s either a prince, a politician, or a personality.  

Margaery looks over to Sansa, taking in her short clingy blue dress, the one with the cowl neckline sweeping softly across her décolletage. And suddenly, she finds she’s awfully fond of Sansa. This is the friend that has been there for her over the years, through the crazy and the good, the awful and the bliss. Always steadfast, even when Margaery sometimes flakes out on her.  

“Thank you,” Margaery says now with unexpected feeling and squeezes her friend's hand. “I’ll have you know that if they do decide to take us out to the back and shoot us, I’ll do my best to step in front of you first.” 

“That is not at all reassuring, Margaery!” murmurs Sansa as her incorrigible friend laughs, but at least she relaxes slightly now. 

Sansa relaxes a lot more when Petyr enters the room. “Ladies,” he greets with a smile that makes him look especially handsome, even a little younger. Sansa suddenly breathes a little easier, quietly relieved to see another familiar face.  

“Welcome to _Crown Jewel_. Our chef has been cooking up a storm.” He gestures to the papers that Legal boy is finally rounding up and packing into his briefcase. There is no dinner here at the _Jewel_ for him tonight. “I had to sign these myself,” Petyr confides, as if understanding their misgivings earlier. “It’s just protocol, I assure you. Our other guest tonight is a careful man.” 

“But who is this other guest?” Margaery is just dying to know now, and bless Sansa for actually asking. 

Petyr offers his arm to Sansa, who takes it after the shortest of pauses. “Let’s find out,” he says, opening the door for Margaery. 

It’s a Sunday night, and the _Jewel_ is usually open for business on Sundays so it’s almost surreal to walk out of the private function room back into the empty main dining area, usually packed to the hilt with a waitlist that goes on for almost a year. _This must be Petyr’s doing,_ Sansa realises now, having read up even more about him and his company since she saw him at _remedy_. She’s never been here before, having long given up because of the infamous waitlist. And yet here she is, about to partake of a private tasting banquet for four. Just unbelievable. 

It’s only when they start crossing over to the windows that Sansa sees the gentleman and realises that she knows him. That she knows _of_ him, rather.  

Margaery’s face is inscrutable when the gentleman rises from his seat. “Good evening, ladies,” his disconcertingly familiar voice rumbles, as heard on radio and TV. “I’m Tywin Lannister. Pleasure to meet you." 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

Margaery is a woman who is seldom lost for words. Words are her trade. But right now, she’s only too aware that for the last ten seconds, all she’s managed to do is to open her mouth and then close it again.

_Her date._ When she had peppered Petyr Baelish with her twenty questions, when he had cautiously answered them all — what her date looks like, whether he’s intelligent, whether he’s single (always, ALWAYS check and never, NEVER take that one for granted)… Petyr Baelish, Margaery realises now, had deliberately failed to mention the most _obvious_ , the most _important thing_. 

She stares at him, feeling her neck crane as she takes in the pale gold of his thinning hair, feeling her eyes squint as she notes the lines around his mouth etched by the passage of time. 

Tywin Lannister, in the flesh, is so fucking _tall_.  

He glowers down at her and his presence expands like a thunderous cloud filling up the cavernous space, sucking in all the air in the gods-damn room.   

Her hips turn to goo. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

_This could be more awkward,_ thinks Petyr. And yet he’s not at all tempted to change anything right this minute.

It’s funny how the greatest opportunities can sometimes present themselves in the unlikeliest of circumstances. When he had first approached Margaery… when she had been sufficiently intrigued and convinced enough to give this blind power-date a try, he had sensed trepidation — a natural thing, of course. Most blind dates take place in public spaces, not under the cover of darkness and secrecy.  

“Perhaps you might be more comfortable bringing a friend…” he had finally suggested. 

There had been a telling pause. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” 

“I’ll go back to my client. I’ll see what I can do — see if he’ll allow it,” Petyr had dangled, which only made Margaery’s eyes flash and her voice grow haughty. 

“I’ll agree to this plan," she had thus decided, "if — and only if — your _client_ agrees to a double-date.” And Petyr had hidden a smile, his gamble having paid off. Margaery Tyrell is a woman who forges her own path, thankyouverymuch.    

“Who the hell can I bring along to this thing!” Tywin had seethed, and Petyr had bowed his head, his palms open on his side as if to say, _I’m just the messenger. The lady wants what she wants._

“Is there anyone else you’ve talked to about this possible arrangement, Governor?” 

“I don’t mix business with pleasure.” 

Petyr had nodded. “I was only wondering if you knew anyone sympathetic to your cause, who sits outside of work. Friends?” 

And Tywin had rolled his eyes. “I’m a politician.” 

“Family, then.” 

“Definitely not!”  

“Only a suggestion, Governor…” And Petyr had smiled and fallen silent.  

It had taken Tywin Lannister fifteen seconds before he turned back to look Petyr coolly in the eye. “Doing anything Sunday night?” the Governor had drawled.  

And so now they’re seated together, the four of them. The Governor and Margaery by the windows, Sansa beside her friend, and Petyr across from her, next to Tywin. _This could be more awkward,_ thinks Petyr. But he drinks in the sight before him, taking in the blue of that dress that sets off the sapphires in Sansa’s bottomless eyes. And she is smiling at him, so elegant despite the contrivance, so serene despite the fact that the most powerful man in all of Westerlands is sitting diagonally across from her… but has yet to engage either Petyr or Sansa in any sort of banal chit-chat. 

Because Margaery and Tywin have apparently lost the art of small talk. 

“You turned down our invitation to speak at the _Women of Energy_ summit,” Margaery accuses. But her legs are crossed, and she’s twirling her hair. 

“I did.” 

“That was a very bad look,” Margaery tuts. “You’re trying to court powerful women, and so you flirt with us — but then you desert us?" 

“I made a handsome donation.” 

“Oh but we needed your handsome _face_. See, THAT would have been the better donation. We would have fundraised the hell out of it — half the year’s quota with your old handsome mug and your new public endorsement. My job would have been _so_ much easier.” Margaery sighs dramatically.  

“I had a better offer,” Tywin shrugs but a corner of his mouth starts to tug upwards. It’s alarming, frankly. He looks almost _playful_.  

“Better than us women?” 

“I’ll gladly turn up to fundraise for the Mickey Mouse Society of Knitters and Quilters when you stop pushing for affirmative action.” 

“Now I think that’s just offensive, Governor—“ 

“—Call me Tywin.” 

“—Lannister…” Margaery insists, but she cannot resist stretching a leg and when it reaches his own — because gods-dammit, he’s so _tall_ — he doesn’t move it away. _Interesting._

“How have I offended you, Margaery?” 

“—Miss Tyrell,” she corrects. “Well for one thing, you just assumed that knitting and quilting must be the purview of women. That it must be beneath you men.” 

“I said no such thing,” Tywin replies coolly, as his leg presses into her own. “I’ve been known to crochet after dinner sometimes.” 

“Have you!”  

And Tywin raises an eyebrow as if to ask how gullible Margaery is. 

Sansa suppresses a smile and stares across at Petyr, who looks triumphant and a little surprised. She catches his eye and both of them flash a grin at one another before demurely returning to their salmon, still beautifully warm and melty in the mouth. 

It’s the next sentence that makes Sansa choke on soft fish. 

“How much does a governor make nowadays anyway?” Margaery asks, playing with the lemon butter. Sansa’s eyes are saucers. 

“Enough,” Tywin smirks. He doesn’t seem at all offended, only amused. 

“I only ask, because that very handsome donation was also a very personal one.” 

“And how did you find that out?” 

“I have many skills, Governor.” And her foot — now bare — slides up his leg a fraction. Just a fraction. 

There’s a teeny tiny gasp that Tywin hides expertly with a soft cough. But Sansa reddens anyway.  

“Miss Tyrell—“ 

“Margaery,” she corrects and Tywin’s nostrils flare.  

“You are very contrary.” 

“Oh, but I like to be unpredictable.” 

“Oh?” Tywin says, his voice a touch husky and now even Petyr is starting to look around the room. 

“So it’s _Miss_ Tyrell?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you are divorced.” 

“But you are widowed. I don’t see you referring to yourself as The Widower Governor Lannister. Why should I be defined by my past relationships?” 

“It is custom, I suppose.” 

“Screw custom, Tywin.” 

Tywin twists his lips and considers the young woman before him. She’s a smart-arse and is likely to be a world of trouble… but gods, is his cock twitching.  

Petyr clears his throat and it is enough. Tywin snaps his head to consider the man beside him. 

“Thank you, Baelish,” he answers coolly, as if Petyr just offered to do him a favour. He will, though. The sooner, the better. Petyr is a man. And he is no fool. 

“Governor,” Petyr murmurs smoothly now, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Please excuse me. Dinner was lovely, but I think I could do with a walk.” He stands now and looks across at Sansa, holding out his hand. “Miss Stark,” he asks so pleasantly, "would you care to join me?" 

“Suit yourselves,” Tywin replies, not even looking at either of them as they leave the table, his eyes boring into Margaery’s as if he could eat her for breakfast. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

She had been sure to take her pale gold clutch with her, fully prepared now not to return to the _Jewel._ And as if Petyr had understood the state of play all too well himself, he had followed her out, his fingers lightly grazing her back as he guided her through the main foyer and out the front revolving door.

Wordlessly, they had crossed the street and walked eastward down two blocks until they were back on the main boulevard. The night breeze was cool and not cutting cold but then Sansa hadn’t quite prepared to step out this evening without a coat either. She had rubbed her arms once, twice. And then he was casually shrugging out of his own jacket, draping it over her thin, bare shoulders like a wedding cloak. She had shivered again, although this time it had far less to do with the wind tunnels whistling around the skyscrapers about them, threatening every now and then to whip up her rather short, rather fetching royal blue dress. 

He smells nice — more than nice. He smells _good_. The scent he wears is spiced with leather, tobacco and Tonka bean. She’s always liked it, she realises now. She liked it the first time when he helped her out of her jacket at _Paradise 7._ And then again, when he had leaned over his own bar in _remedy_ to listen intently while she was prattling on about something she can’t even remember now. But she remembers catching a whiff, and then leaning back into him, just to catch that musk again.  

It should feel strange wandering the city with the manager of the restaurant they just dined at. And yet it feels almost familiar instead, as if they’ve done this before in another lifetime. 

“How do you know the governor?” she finally asks. 

“I don’t, not really. He approached me.” Petyr’s holding a cigarette that he doesn’t light. He twirls it in his fingers, almost as if it’s an afterthought, as if it’s a habit. She half expects him to stick it in his mouth and light it up, but he doesn’t. It’s mesmerising, watching him gesture loosely with the cigarette still between his expressive fingers. 

“He came with a very particular brief,” Petyr goes on to explain, and he flashes Sansa an enigmatic, knowing smile. “Our governor is a very private man, and you can appreciate that, of course. Everything he does can be construed to mean one thing or another publicly… But he’s been in office for so long, that I suspect he’s finally determined he can’t keep waiting for his mandate to end before his own private life begins. And yet it's not like he has the time to go hunting.” Petyr shrugs. "He outsourced instead. To me."  

Sansa nods. It’s hard enough for the likes of busy Margaery. Sansa cannot imagine trying to date someone when you’re constantly in the limelight on top of being incredibly busy. The relationship would be over even before it begins. Although for someone as powerful as Tywin, it almost surprises Sansa that there isn't already a queue, that he has to try this hard. 

“He's not in short supply of interested parties,” Petyr explains when she says as much. “But like I said, he has a particular brief.” 

“And Margaery fulfils it?” 

Petyr looks at Sansa curiously. “She does,” he says and his tone is careful. “I’ve had to pay attention, but judging from what we saw earlier, I think my observations paid off.” 

“You did wonderfully!” enthuses Sansa warmly. But there is a thoughtful look that crosses her face and after a pause, she finally ventures to ask, “This has nothing to do with Margaery attending _Big_ , does it?”  

“I cannot _possibly_ comment,” comes the serenely wicked reply and Sansa flushes a little even as she laughs, comprehension lighting her bright blue eyes. 

He loves that sound, he realises. And so he tries again to win it. They talk about their families now and at first it seems as if they have nothing in common. She comes from a big, sprawling family that takes in waifs and wanderers along the way. He doesn’t even know his own mother. Her blood is royal blue, just about. Their family name and money date back at least a thousand years. He came from nothing, started a nobody. 

“But look at you now,” marvels Sansa and she sounds so genuine, Petyr finds himself turning away to stare at something — anything — else. He twirls the cigarette again, barely resisting the urge to stick it between his lips, to light it up and suck so deep. He twirls his little cancer stick between his fingertips, making it dance across one end of his hand to the other over and over.  

But he does nothing more with it because he’s finally filled with fucking hope again. 

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

She takes in the cut of his suit, the press of his shirt, the neatness of his appearance. She listens to the way he speaks, the precision of his words, the soft lilt of his low voice that manages somehow to always sound intimate... He’s polished style, a careful curation. And even though she’s grown up surrounded by wealth and breeding; even though she’s met many impressive, important men — peers of her parents, mostly — there’s a restlessness and a brilliance within Petyr that rather excites her. That is singular and unique to him. 

He smells even better tonight than she remembers. 

He asks about her work and even though she’s shy at first, even though she looks at her modest personal accomplishments and realises yet again how little she has to call her very own, his fascination is flattering. She tells him about the last documentary she just finished, the one she filmed entirely on 8mm, the one currently in post-production. And even though he very quietly owns a quarter of the real estate in Lannisport and Governor Tywin has him on speed-dial, Petyr Baelish looks and sounds genuinely interested in her work. So much so that they soon gravitate to her beloved Arthouse on the corner of 69 and 3rd. 

She’s almost shy when she finally opens the double-doors and both of them stare at the rows and rows and rows of seats before them. 

“It’s a cinema!” Petyr sounds surprised. “I was expecting this to be a theatre playhouse.” 

“It isn’t… and it is.” And Sansa wonders why she’s blushing so furiously. Or why it’s suddenly important that he likes her baby, that he might even grow to love it. “I’m sorry — I must have described it badly. You see, I screen stage productions from around the world. And the screen… it retracts so there’s a small stage sitting behind it. Sometimes, we stage live plays, though not very often. My main love is still film.” 

She stops herself, conscious that she might be blathering. But Petyr is wandering in now, running his hand across the last row of velvet-covered chairs, taking in the original hand-carved pillars holding up the building, craning up to peer at the circle seats — such a quaint feature for a modern cinema, and yet so fitting for a cosy theatrette.  

“How many seats?” 

“Three hundred and eighty-eight, if you count the balcony,” Sansa replies automatically. “I know it’s not very big.” 

“It’s charming.” 

“It’s niche and kinda old-fashioned.” 

“It’s timeless perfection. Like you.” 

Oh gods. She can feel the blood just pumping up her neck now. Thank goodness the ambient lights are taking ages to warm up, as usual. “It’s not like it’s _Paradise 7_ , or anything…”  

“Sansa,” Petyr says now, and his voice is suddenly so serious that she stops. 

“What?” 

“You need to stop doing that.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Brushing away the compliment,” Petyr explains patiently. “Or downplaying your achievements somehow.” 

“D-do I?” she asks faintly. Oh but he’s looking at her _so_ seriously now, his eyes unblinking and perfectly symmetrical and so intense… 

“This is wonderful.” He gestures vaguely at the stage, at the seats, at her baby.  

“It’s alright…” she demurs again and then kicks herself for proving him right. “I mean… it’s a restoration project, right? I’d never done anything like it before. I made so many mistakes, it’s embarrassing. Just stupid, stupid things…” _Shut up!_ Sansa groans at herself inwardly. And yet she just cannot seem to stop. “I mean… I got there in the end, but it took me a while. I’m such a slow learner!” She gives a little laugh. He doesn’t buy it for a second. 

“This is wonderful,” he insists, stepping closer. “ _You’re_ wonderful.” 

And before he can think too hard, before he loses his nerve entirely, his hand brushes across her cheek until his fingers reach into her hair and her self-deprecation dies in her throat. 

And then he's pulling her face gently to his. 

And then he’s kissing her so softly even as his heart pounds in his ears. 

He kisses her and there’s a tremble, and he’s not quite sure if it’s her or if it’s him. She isn’t pulling back but he still isn’t sure if she wants this until he feels the press of her lips back on his. There’s a small tilt of their heads as their noses brush. He breaks the kiss, dazed. And then he presses his lips on hers again. And again. And on the fourth time, she leans towards him and kisses him first. And his heart bursts.

_Oh gods,_ she thinks as she feels her knees soften, as a sigh escapes her throat. It’s sheer agony, his kisses — so soft, so restrained and it takes every ounce of her own self-control not to grab his face and fully snog him like a drunken drunk thing. Oh but this is _so_ good as well… 

Somehow, whether by her own encouragement or his, they start to move towards the back wall where the lights don’t touch them, where all they can do is _feel_. And oh, doesn’t she want to feel him suddenly. _All of him._ The thought, the realisation sends a jolt of something through her. And yet he’s still kissing her so gently, so tenderly like she’s some kind of precious flower when all she wants more than anything now is to— 

_I’m jumping right ahead,_ she thinks wildly, starting to panic at her train of thought. _I’m really into this guy, and I want to rip off his — in public — right here — oh gods… just breathe… just let him lead, just take it slow…_

And it takes every ounce of his own self-control not to press himself into her, not to melt into her skin. Not to hold her exquisite face and fucking devour her like a hungry hungering thing. Petyr wills himself to only go lightly and gently. There is still the tiniest gap between their bodies. Her nipples barely graze his shirt… 

_Shit. Shouldn’t have thought of her nipples._

But he’s yelling at himself now, even as he keeps his lips soft, as he samples her own. _Don’t spook the woman, don’t scare the girl… let her get used to the idea of you. You’ve been fantasising about this moment for half a year, when she’s barely even thought of you…_

But oh, has he wanted her for forever. And he has to choke down a groan as every cell in his body strains to touch her, to feel her. His cock, his poor cock! All 6.9375 inches of sheer frustration. He wants her so bad, he’s starting to leak. 

He will not touch her! 

But maybe just a little… 

She tilts her head and when he feels her tongue he groans out loud before he can stop himself. And the gods help him, but his hips shift forward as if possessed, as if answering some pavlovian call from her tongue and he brushes his cock against her _there_. Just briefly, a graze… 

_Oh gods!_ her mind starts to squeal. It was an accidental bump she’s sure, but already Sansa is going mad. _He’s hard, he’s so hard… but his kisses are still so soft—_

She wantonly grinds back into his length and immediately freezes.  

He stops. _She stopped. Why?_ He breaks the kiss to stare at her. _Surely she doesn’t know. Surely she couldn’t tell, not from such a quick moment… Or maybe she_ can _,_ Petyr wonders in horror. After all, if there’s anyone who would know what a seven-minimum would feel like in a bump-and-grind... 

The chime of a mobile phone slices through the deafening silence of the theatre. Sansa fumbles at her clutch bag, the both of them suddenly relieved at the rude interruption.  

“Sans!” whispers Margaery fiercely now. “You’ll never guess where I am!” 

“Not at the _Crown Jewel_ , clearly!” Sansa grins.  Petyr raises an eyebrow and smirks knowingly. 

“His bathroom!” Margaery’s still whispering. “I am in Gov-er-nor Lan-nis-ter’s Bathroom!” She almost sings the last three words. 

“Well, that happened quick!” 

“I’m in love, Sansa! Really!” Margaery sighs. “It’ll kill me if he turns out to have a teensy peen. But I'm seriously, like, I’m _seriously_ beyond caring about even that, now. We get along fabulously. He’s _everything,_ Sans. Powerful. Intelligent. Goddamn sexy. Rich.” A beat. “Oh who am I kidding. I HOPE HE’S HUGE.” 

“Ssshhhhh!” laughs Sansa, glancing over at Petyr to see if he heard. 

“I’m actually freaking out, Sans. I want this to work so bad. What if we end up sucking in bed?”  

“That cannot happen with you, I know it.” 

“But what if it does?” Margaery plays with the giant stones of her necklace and Sansa hears every clacking as they rub. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because so far, he’s perfect. What if the shoe is _the sex?!_ ” 

“Talking to me while holed up in Gov’ner Lannister’s bathroom isn’t going to answer that question,” Sansa gently points out.  

“You’re right.” There’s a short pause. “Oh gods. I’ve taken too long. Now he probably thinks I took a poo in his toilet. Total mood-killer there!” 

“Go!” Sansa urges, shaking her head in fond exasperation. 

“Where the hell are you anyway, Sans?” 

“Stop procrastinating!”  

Petyr turns away, willing himself to regroup as Sansa continues to murmur and laugh for a minute longer. When she finally hangs up, there’s a pause between them both as they smile almost shyly. 

“I think I’d better close up now,” Sansa says at last. 

 ~ • ~ • ~

They walk out of her theatre and her hands are busy so she doesn’t have to look at him. He watches her lock up, his own hands deep in his pockets. He's fingering the cigarette he never smoked because he had an inkling earlier on, he had a hope that maybe, just maybe, he could kiss her. 

But now they’re walking again and as it turns out, she lives just another five blocks west, in a corner unit of a row of terrace houses. She lives on the first floor because her father insists that it’s safer, less prone to break-ins even though the ground floor unit is bigger and gives her a little garden. Petyr's watching her beautiful, sexy mouth move as she tells him all this, but all he can think about is the many other men who’ve been here before him. Tormund, and Curly Mop Beefcake. Old Man Davos, and goodness knows who else.  

All seven inches a-plenty.  

_What the hell is he going to do!_

“I don’t usually let people know where I live,” she says out of the blue even though he hasn’t asked.  

He can’t help himself when his tone conveys surprise. “You don’t?” 

She smiles. “I don’t. It’s a safety thing. Force of habit. Can you keep a secret?” And she winks. He grins, except he doesn’t feel like grinning. He’s bloody confused. 

The only thing he’s sure of is that he wants to kiss her again. And so he does, holding her face in both his hands this time as he leans into her and kisses her deeply — deeper than he has all night. And again, his heart is pounding, his head is a mess and his chest is open wide. He feels her hands slide over to curve around his neck and this time, he tilts his head and slices her lips open with his tongue. 

He feels her hesitation and it is enough. He stops immediately, pulling away. Her eyes are still half closed and it takes her another moment before she blinks and looks at him properly. She looks a little dazed.  

_Should I let him in,_ she wonders now. She’s taking too long, she knows it. She’s trying not to panic. But oh _gods_ , she hadn’t planned on the evening turning out this way at all! Sansa feels wholly unprepared, caught out, and as sense warred hard with a yearning so fierce that it almost scares her, Petyr clears his throat softly and decides for both of them. 

“It’s been a lovely evening, Sansa.” He brings her hand to his mouth and presses his lips softly on her fingers. His face doesn’t betray a hint of regret or disappointment when he bids her goodnight.

 ~ • ~ • ~ 

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/42811945694/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/29991292178/in/dateposted-public/)

_She’s not here._

He’s looking at the list of tonight’s registrants, he’s scanning the tables. Maybe Ros missed her. Maybe she’s already inside. At the tables? At the bar? Her favourite corner where she goes and hides to catch her breath? 

Nothing.   

He finally gets to kiss her and she doesn’t show up the very next day _even though she has the tickets_. He knows she does. He had given them to her personally. She had thanked him with those beautiful blue eyes.  

Petyr doesn’t know what to _think_. What _can_ he think! They walk the length of the city and they make out in her own theatre and she touches his face… But then he leaves her at her door, and then… what? What can he expect of her? 

To fucking show up at _Big_ , he hopes. Or perhaps this is her way of telling him that she’s just looking for another kind of guy.  

It’s driving him insane, this not knowing. 

The fact that Margaery isn’t here either might be an indication, he hopes. They do everything together, don’t they. Women friends. If Margaery and Tywin did indeed hit it off — and all indications are that they did — then he can’t imagine Tywin liking it if she turned up at _Big_ the next day.  

But then he closes his eyes and he remembers how she had climbed into that cab with the Orange Yeti and Beefcake. One human sandwich there. Sansa hadn’t needed Margaery then. She’s perfectly capable of having her own fun without her, clearly. 

_Oh gods…_

He scans the room for those assholes now, his eyes narrowing as he squints through the squash of people. The gong had gone off twenty minutes ago and everyone’s standing around now. Petyr climbs up his stair, all the better for him to pick them out.  

And then he sees them. Perhaps for the first time.  

He notices Tormund first, and the cave man has cornered that brute of a woman who looks like she’s fighting a smile. Curly Mop Beefcake is actually making out quite seriously with a thin and tiny redhead. 

It’s bloody confusing, and yet Petyr feels as if a kind of truth is almost within his grasp. He runs back down his stairs, almost tripping over the last two steps in his haste. He _feels_ it all starting to fit together, starting to coalesce and yet he still doesn’t quite understand… Petyr ducks through the crowd, his legs taking him where his mind hasn’t quite figured out yet.  

He bumps into Sandor and before he can think too hard, he’s asking if Sandor knows where Sansa is. 

“The fuck if I know,” Scarface growls, but adds, “She’s a proper lady—doesn’t like your parties anyway. If the other one, the crazy brunette, doesn’t come, I don’t expect Sansa would either.”   

Petyr stiffens. “Sansa doesn’t like Big?” 

Sandor shrugs. “I wouldn’t take it personally...” 

But Petyr barely hears the man now as he carves his way through the throng, as the phones start to light up on cue, as everyone scrummages for their answer to one of life’s most exhilarating questions: is it mutual? 

Petyr grabs his keys and sprints to the garage.   

 ~ • ~ • ~

He had taken two wrong turns and had to sweet talk a little old lady to let him into the apartment block, which meant listening to a recount of mindnumbing minutiae for ten fucking minutes he didn’t really have.  

He had bounded up those stairs, two, three steps at a time. 

But now he’s finally here and even as he knocks, he feels himself start to panic. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, exactly. He’s still not entirely sure if he’d be welcomed.  

_I don’t usually let people know where I live_ , Sansa had told him. And now he’s stalking her, just to prove her own point.  

It’s way past eleven, almost midnight. _It’s too late. You’re insane. You’re going to look absolutely insane._

He’s about to turn and go when he hears a chain slide across and the door open behind him. 

“Petyr?” And he turns, and it’s _her_. 

“Are you okay?” Sansa looks around the corridor to see if he came alone. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes… no! Sansa… I just… I got concerned when I didn't see you at _Big_ tonight.” 

She looks immediately guilty now. “Well yes, and thank you for those free tickets. I realise I mustn’t look very grateful.” 

“I don’t care about that…” And he steps a little closer. He needs to know. “Did you… Could you tell me why you didn’t come tonight?” 

_Is it me,_  is what he really wants to ask. _Are you avoiding me?_

“Oh…” And again, Sansa looks uncomfortable. Petyr feels a kind of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s nothing personal… It’s always a lovely party, you know. You do such a good job, and I meet some wonderful people now and then… but I… but it’s not really for me.” 

“It’s not?” And Petyr steps a little closer. “Do you mean… But you come every month!” 

“For Margaery!” And Sansa opens her palms helplessly. “Until Tywin, she’s the reason I even come. She _loves_ your parties, but she prefers I go with her just in case it goes to poo. I-I’ve been tagging along, but that’s it.” 

“But all those men!” And she flushes now, even as Petyr mentally kicks himself. And yet it’s far too late now to be coy about that fact that he’s been staring at her for months. “I saw you,” he murmurs quietly. “Davos… Tormund… Jon… Bronn... even Sandor. You’re close to all of them.” 

“As _friends_ ,” Sansa emphasises. “It’s not romantic or anything. I’m like their sister. They’re like brothers, to me.” 

Petyr finds that incredible, honestly. As if any man could look at her and not want to touch her. For once, he’s actually speechless. 

“To be honest, I wanted to come tonight… but then, I didn’t want to have to sit through twenty more dates and deal with anymore male attention. Well —" she hesitates now, the blush creeping back up her neck, “—except for yours, of course.”  

Petyr’s head snaps up at those words. “Except—“ he repeats, hardly believing his ears. And then he closes the gap between them, his hand reaching out to cup her chin, to tilt her head back as he leans over her and covers her mouth with his own.  

And this time — _this time_ — he kisses her like he’s always wanted to, like he should have last night when she ground against him, when he had her in the shadows, when he thought his chest would burst.    

And this time she’s kissing him back instantly, her arms snaking around his neck, her kisses urgent, hard and hot. They stumble into her apartment, tripping over her shoe rack, bumping into the bookshelf just behind the door. He rakes his teeth over the nape of her neck and she groans a little groan. He nibbles her collarbone and she hisses and sighs.   

She’s unbuttoning his shirt and he squeezes his eyes shut as he grimaces in pleasure. It’s surreal, it’s surreal, it’s so surreal until she traces his scar and he opens his eyes.  

“It’s…” he starts lamely, not even sure where to start when it comes to his dodgy past.  

“Love it,” she sighs happily and his knees buckle when she licks down the silvery trail. 

She’s wearing the softest, _softest_ T-shirt that looks almost threadbare in the ambient light but when his hand skims past her arms, brushes a breast, he realises that she’s not wearing a bra.  

He cups her through that almost-sheer fabric, teasing her nipple beneath his palm as she sighs into his mouth and presses herself, her core into his 6.9375… 

He stops, drawing back abruptly, suddenly afraid. 

“What is it?” she’s asking now, frowning slightly in concern. “Are we going too fast?” 

“NO.” He’s quick to answer that at least. But as for his real hesitation, Petyr is at a complete loss to explain. 

“Sansa…” And it’s such a difficult thing to have to own up to. “The Monday parties… _Big_ …” He’s working his jaw and hating every moment of this. It’s fucking humiliating, the wait before the hope in her eyes dies out in disappointment. 

“I’m the brains behind that party… but it doesn’t always follow that just because… I…” He shakes his head as something like comprehension lights up those intelligent sapphire eyes. 

_Shit fuck double-cunting grown-ass argh_

Petyr sighs, utterly defeated. And all Sansa wants to do right now is wrap her arms around him tight and shag him happy. 

She leans into him, fitting her body into his embrace, her breath grazing the shell of his ear as she whispers, “Ask me what my number is.” 

There’s a pause before he clears his throat. 

“What’s your number, Sansa?”  

And she smiles sweetly even as her hand skirts down the vee of his body until she grazes the front of his pants and then palms the length of him slowly until he hisses. 

“I’m thinking,” she husks, “my number is… yours.”

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162326344@N04/29975668568/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo sorry for the wait, especially after I said I was going to post all chapters in quick succession. Real life got in the way, and this was a doozy of a chapter to write anyway. But I got there eventually!
> 
> Thanks again for journeying with me. xx

**Author's Note:**

> So this came about when apocketfulofwry just casually dropped me a link about an actual speed-dating event for big guys, called Hung Night. And then she waited. ;-)
> 
> Many thanks to her as we chuckled over this one. This was supposed to be a short fic, but now it's lengthened to 4 chapters. (Feel free to chuck in an innuendo here.)
> 
> The next few chapters are coming up all this week, fingers crossed.
> 
> As always, I love hearing from you. xx
> 
>  
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/), so feel free to drop in and chat. (And if you like what I write, perhaps maybe sorta kinda do a girl a solid and think about reblogging once in a while, hey?) 
> 
> I have a [writing schedule](https://calendar.google.com/calendar/embed?src=o817rtudvnf415pb5388sq7r1k%40group.calendar.google.com&ctz=Australia%2FSydney>schedule%20of%20fic%20releases</a>%20which%20is%20also%20viewable%20in%20the%20<a%20href=) that gives an indication of works and chapters coming up, although that's all subject to change of course. This calendar is also viewable in the [ desktop version of Tumblr](https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/writing-schedule).


End file.
